


When Women Kiss

by Telanu



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telanu/pseuds/Telanu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Together, with the help of lousy kissing and awkward sex, Miranda and Andy don't figure out how to have a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Women Kiss

* * *

_"When women kiss, it always reminds one of prize-fighters shaking hands." -H.L. Mencken_

* * *

Miranda Priestly cannot kiss.

This is a fact. She's no good at it. She's good at almost everything she tries, but not kissing. This is largely because she approaches it like she approaches any other task, and while you might be good in bed if you fuck like it's your job--you might be very good, in fact--kissing is not quite the same.

Kissing is more intimate than sex, in several ways, and this alarms Miranda. She is never really herself when she kisses. She does it because she is expected to, and it becomes an ordeal for both people. One of her boyfriends, before her first marriage, complained that she kissed him as if she was swabbing out her toilet with her tongue. She is still not sure what he meant by this, which goes a long way towards showing that she just. Doesn't. Get it.

Andy Sachs is an excellent kisser.

This is also a fact. Andy loves kissing. She approaches it with anticipation, sometimes with joy, sometimes even with downright glee. For her, a kiss can be an end in itself, instead of a prelude. It's like sharing a secret with someone you are very fond of. She's been earning her black belt in making out since she was fourteen years old, when she kissed her first boyfriend, Rob, and discovered how much fun it could be. She might be self-righteous and kind of cocky; she might not be much of a girlfriend sometimes; she might not even be a very good pal--but there is no doubt that the girl can kiss.

* * *

Andy leaves Miranda in Paris. They find each other again a year later at some function they both attend, and for some reason, they speak. Neither is surprised to discover that the other has been keeping tabs on her the whole time. Andy haltingly congratulates Miranda on winning an award for excellence in philanthropy; Miranda asks in an indifferent tone how Andy's series on the teachers' union is going. There is wine.

By the end of the night, after the conversation, after the wine, after realizing that they are thoroughly bored by everything at the party except each other, Andy and Miranda find themselves necking like teenagers in the back seat of Miranda's car. There is underground parking at this event, and so Miranda drove her favorite car, the Porsche, herself. Who knows why? She's a much better driver than she is a kisser. Perhaps she likes the feeling of pressing down hard on the gas.

"Walked right out on your assignment," Miranda growls against Andy's mouth, her breath wine-warm, before doing something really sloppy and weird with her tongue. Her leg's hooked around Andy's waist. "Tossed your phone in the fountain--wasn't even your phone--irresponsible and ungrateful--"

"You're a psycho," Andy says, and wriggles until she's got Miranda pinned beneath her against the seat. "Complete, evil psycho. Now hold still." She lays a deep one on Miranda, a really good one; and then she pulls back, makes a face, and says, "You're a bad kisser."

"Oh, _fuck_ you," Miranda says, because she's drunk, and yanks Andy's head down for another try.

Now it's Andy's turn to growl. She grabs Miranda's hands and pins them above her head, against the window. The Porsche's back seat is not exactly spacious, not like the Mercedes. They are pressed very tightly together. They both drank way too much, and kind of have to pee, but they don't let that stop them. Andy sucks hard at Miranda's throat while Miranda bucks underneath her, panting. "How long since you last got laid?" Andy asks.

"Shut up," Miranda says, because she doesn't like to think about it. She yanks her hands free and digs her fingers punishingly into Andy's shoulders.

"Okay," Andy says, and maybe she doesn't know what she's let herself in for. Regardless, she kisses Miranda again, and again and again, taking over the kisses so that Miranda doesn't have time or space to screw them up, snapping at Miranda's lips every time she tries something. And soon enough, Miranda's just letting it happen, letting Andy kiss her half-conscious, dragging her hands up and down Andy's back. It is possible that she has never been kissed so well, or so much, in her life. She trembles, whimpers, sighs.

Then she moves her hips, and they both hear the distressingly audible…squishing noise that means Miranda is so wet that her thighs are sticking together. Miranda cringes but does not say stop. Andy's head spins, and she dares to grab Miranda's breasts, twisting and pinching the nipples through the lace of her bra. "Jesus God," she says, and does not know what prompts her to add, breathlessly and uncharacteristically, "want to fuck you to pieces--"

Miranda doesn't know either, but it makes her come, just like that. She bucks again and shouts, a baffled, wordless exclamation. One of her legs kicks out, her foot slams painfully against the roof of the car, and her orgasm ends in an _"Ow!"_

This sobers them both up pretty fast. When Miranda recovers, she's so embarrassed she wants to die, and she says, "Get off me."

Andy--who hasn't come and can't imagine doing so right now--doesn't look Miranda in the eye. She sits up, straightens her dress, and mumbles, "You're too drunk to drive. Call Roy, okay?" And without another word, she leaves, stumbling towards the parking garage's elevator while Miranda lies in the back seat of her car, still flushed and quivering, her foot throbbing, telling herself emphatically that she has not just sort-of-had-sex with her former assistant.

Andy, riding the elevator and wishing desperately for a bathroom, finds herself laughing out loud at the discovery--dearly bought--that Miranda Priestly is a horrible kisser. She is not remotely surprised.

* * *

Three days later, Andy calls Miranda. She doesn't know why. Miranda answers the phone. She doesn't know why, either. And very late that night, Andy returns to the empty Elias-Clarke building.

Miranda attempts to act like nothing happened; Andy is having none of it. After haughty glares and cold voices and, finally, actual shouting-- they're sober tonight, which means it is both more awkward and more satisfying when they insult each other--Andy once again attempts to explain proper kissing technique to Miranda. They end up in the Closet, in the middle of a pile of Roberto Cavalli trapeze dresses. Miranda ungraciously lies on top of Andy, making it difficult for her to breathe while she single-mindedly grinds her way to orgasm against Andy's thigh. She comes like it hurts her, scrunching up her face and gritting her teeth. Then she slumps, letting her dead weight fall on Andy, making no move to reciprocate. Again.

"You selfish--" Andy mutters, pushing Miranda off her. She grabs Miranda's hand, and presses it into her own still-clothed crotch, where she humps it until she comes. Then she rolls over on top of Miranda, driving the air out of Miranda's lungs, and kisses her one more time. "I'm going home."

"You do that," Miranda says. They glare at each other, and part ways.

* * *

One week later, the _New York Post_ runs an extremely unflattering editorial on Miranda Priestly, based largely on testimonials from anonymous sources. It makes her the poster child for workplace hostility and discomfort, ostensibly pointing at a larger problem, but really only using every opportunity to insult her, personally.

Miranda believes that Andy has contributed to it, and her rage is boundless. She supposes she should be grateful that there's nothing in there about her kissing skills, or apparent lack thereof, but it doesn't help.

But that night, Andy shows up at Elias-Clarke, and one look at her face tells Miranda that she wasn't involved. Tonight she doesn't provoke Miranda, or insult her, or anything like that; tonight she kisses her very softly, almost tenderly, and Miranda understands that Andy pities her.

This makes her angrier than if Andy had written the _Post_ article all by herself. She pushes Andy away from her and says terrible things, hurtful things--she is very good at this--until Andy goes bright red and leaves the building without another word, deciding that she will not lower herself to Miranda's level.

Miranda feels vindicated for all of twenty-four hours, which is as long as it takes for an editorial column, written by Andy, to show up in the _New York Mirror_ , castigating the _Post_ for its sensational and irresponsible journalism. The column only briefly alludes to Miranda before going on to attack the _Post_ as a whole. It is cuttingly written. It rings with the girl's righteous anger, with her real belief in the value of the press and in her own responsibility to discover and share the truth with the public.

More importantly, it is also the best possible way for Andy to send Miranda an unmistakable message: I Am A Better Person Than You.

* * *

Two days later, Miranda hijacks Andy as Andy is leaving work. Literally. She waits in the back seat of her Mercedes while Roy--who is illegally parked--hurries to the door Andy's walking through, takes her by the arm, and leads her to the car. Andy, pissed off but curious, gets inside and they roll away.

Miranda does not apologize, but Andy does not expect her to. Roy takes them to Miranda's townhouse. The twins are not home, and once inside, Miranda fucks Andy like it's her job, like she wants to kill her, or at least like she wants to make sure Andy can't walk afterwards.

Andy doesn't just lie back and take it. Three hours later, when Andy leaves, Miranda's bottom lip is still bleeding from when Andy's teeth sliced into it. The enormous St. Bernard dog watches Andy limp out the front door with deep suspicion: she does not trust anyone who makes her mistress cry out over and over again, as if she is being murdered but cannot die.

* * *

The dam's broken now. They start doing it all the time, as much as they can, as often as they can--any outrageous thing they want, any desire, any kink. Not that they are, in fact, especially kinky. They just have no rules. Not the two of them, not in bed.

Miranda likes it best when Andy fucks her with her fingers from behind, sliding them--at least three, preferably four--in and out, roughly, while Miranda scrabbles at the wall and moans commands like _Deeper_ and _Harder,_ and Andy replies with words like _Don't tell me how to do this,_ but always obeys anyway.

Andy likes it best when Miranda kneels before her, between her legs, and shows her that in some respects, at least, she knows how to kiss.

* * *

It is nearly one-thirty in the morning and they think they are alone at Elias-Clarke. When Nigel catches them, they are not naked, but it makes no difference--it's obvious what they're doing. He retreats at once, and they do not notice him.

The next day, he asks Miranda, point-blank, "What do you think you're doing with Andy Sachs?"

He's never said anything like that to her before, and for the first time in her life, she has no idea how to answer him. They stare at each other in mute, mutual disbelief.

But now Miranda knows she has gone too far. That night, at the townhouse, she tries to call it off, the…thing with Andy. This is when she realizes that she can't. It's the most horrifying discovery she's ever made. But although Andy wonders why Miranda's hands shake when they touch her, why Miranda tries very, very hard to kiss her correctly, and why Miranda invites her to stay the night for the first time, she doesn't ask questions.

Against her better judgment, she stays. She gets kicked and elbowed in her sleep while Miranda has strange, unhappy dreams. They glare balefully at each other over coffee the next morning, and Andy leaves before it can get even more uncomfortable.

Miranda does not speak to Nigel all day, and he understands that what he witnessed never really happened. Or else.

* * *

They meet again at a party two nights later. Since they never talk about anything, neither knew the other would be attending. It comes as an unpleasant surprise. Andy looks at the face of the woman she's been fucking for nearly two months now, and tries to make polite conversation with her in front of other people. She blushes and stammers. Miranda is stone-faced, and turns away from Andy without a word, leaving everybody else at the party to give Andy sympathetic looks while Andy yearns to sink through the floor.

Right before Miranda leaves, Andy catches her alone, and says something she's been wanting to say for two years--specifically, "You're the rudest bitch I've ever met"--before flouncing off to speak to a handsome, smiling man who doesn't have a ring on his finger.

She does not know that Miranda's heart has been hammering unpleasantly all evening, nor that Miranda gnashes her teeth all the way home. She does not want Andy to speak to handsome, smiling men, wearing rings or otherwise. But even worse: she does not want to go to parties and feel thoroughly ashamed of her behavior, of her secrets.

* * *

Andy remains furious for three more days. Perhaps Miranda is somehow aware of this, because she waits to hijack Andy again until the fourth day. Angry at Miranda, irritated at herself, Andy nevertheless endures the silent ride to the townhouse without protest. They fall into bed at once, not speaking, but clawing at each other in something like frenzy.

This time it's Andy who tries to call it off, the…thing with Miranda, and can't bring herself to say the words. Instead, she finds herself flat on her back while Miranda makes out with her cunt, and wonders about the girl she used to be. She's not the Andy who first showed up at _Runway._ She's not even the Andy who fell drunkenly into the back of Miranda's car.

She's not sure she likes being this Andy. She's not sure she wants to be anybody else, either.

"Andrea," Miranda moans, sounding almost delirious as she nuzzles between Andy's thighs, like doing this is getting her off all by itself. As a matter of fact, it is. She licks Andy's clit, hard, and Andy goes off like a bomb, grabbing and yanking at Miranda's hair while she writhes on the bed. No. She does not want to be anyone else. She does not want to be with anyone else.

This realization scares the hell out of her, and tonight, she does not stay.

* * *

This can't go on, Miranda thinks.

Something must be done, Andy decides.

* * *

One week later:

"I'm going to Paraguay for three months. On assignment."

Miranda regards Andy silently for a moment, and then buttons up her blouse.

"What a wonderful opportunity for you," she says.

"Yeah," Andy replies. "I'm looking forward to it."

They stare at each other, not speaking, until Miranda lowers her eyes and brushes past Andy, leaving without another word.

* * *

A week after Andy leaves the country, Miranda meets a man at a fundraiser. He is charming and funny. He invites her out to dinner. She can think of no reason to refuse.

* * *

Andy is covering the Mother and Child Basic Insurance Program in Asunción. It's pretty much what it sounds like, and her bosses at the _Mirror_ want her to compare it to America's health care system and to use it to advocate for change. It's right up her alley: she'd lay good money that ninety-nine percent of all Americans have no idea what the MCBIP is. They might not even be able to find Paraguay on a map. She ignores the fact that, before this assignment, neither could she.

Mothers and children. Miranda has two daughters. Andy hasn't seen them since she quit her job at _Runway_ , of course. Miranda was always very careful to keep Andy away from that part of her life. From most parts of her life.

Andy realizes that, sometime when she wasn't looking, Miranda became part of her brain. This infuriates her. But she cannot stop thinking about Miranda (and Miranda's body and Miranda's awful kisses) when she wakes up and when she has a moment to herself during the day and when she dreams.

Maybe she should just apply for an immigrant visa and live here from now on.

* * *

Miranda never really cared about Paraguay before, except as a potential source of caiman skin for handbags. Now she finds herself wondering indignantly why no newspaper has an adequate "World News" section that routinely covers South America. At least it appears that no military coups are imminent, and there have been no reports of earthquakes or floods or mudslides or God knows what else. Still…it is vexing. She writes a letter to the editor of the _New York Times_ , but changes her mind at the last minute and does not send it.

Lisa, her second assistant, knows better than to express her bewilderment when Miranda orders her to provide weekly printed updates on Paraguay from whatever she can scrounge up on Google.

* * *

Andy's work in Paraguay will win her an award. But first, it wins her a very nasty bout with dengue fever, necessitating her return two weeks earlier than planned. She did not take adequate precautions and, when the disease struck, she ignored the symptoms for various reasons: her passion for her work, her belief that she couldn't really get sick, and other reasons she does not now care to dwell on. This made the progression of the disease far more severe than it would otherwise have been, and when she is brought back to the States, she remains hospitalized for a week: aching with pain and fever, dehydrated, barely able to move.

Her parents come, of course, but they have busy lives back in Ohio, and once they determine that Andy is going to recover fully, they are forced to leave after a few days. Andy does not ask them to stay, because she knows they would if she did. Still, she's a little miffed when she tells them she wants them to go home and they actually _do._

At the end of the week, when Andy isn't fully recovered but still has to check out, Miranda Priestly sweeps into the hospital out of the blue. She hasn't visited Andy yet, or called, or even given any indication that she knew Andy was back in the country. This does not stop her from unceremoniously hauling Andy home to the townhouse to finish her recovery. Nobody knows what to make of this, especially Andy. Although Miranda has a great deal to say about Andy's stupidity in allowing herself to get sick, she offers precious little in the way of explanations for her own behavior. As always.

Truthfully, she doesn't really want to think about it herself.

Miranda is not a natural, caring nursemaid. Andy is left alone in the townhouse for a large part of the day while Miranda is at work and the twins--who are just as flabbergasted as everybody else--are at school. When Miranda does come home, she and Andy still don't talk very much. With Andy in bed all day, what could she have to say about anything worthwhile?

Nevertheless, Andy wants for nothing. Miranda makes sure that a nurse checks in on her once a day; her cook has been threatened with dismissal if Andy's food doesn't meet the doctor's specifications; Lisa calls Andy twice a day at prearranged times to see if she needs anything.

Roy ferries Andy to her checkups every three days. Other than that, she stays indoors, and sleeps a great deal. She is sure that Miranda would allow her to have visitors, if she asked. She does not ask. The thought exhausts her.

* * *

Andy is too weak to attend the ICIJ Award ceremony in person, so the certificate arrives in the mail. This is when she realizes that Miranda has arranged for all of Andy's mail to be forwarded to the townhouse.

She stares down at the certificate sitting in her lap while Miranda watches her from across the room.

"Was it worth it?" Miranda asks.

Andy isn't entirely sure what Miranda's referring to, but she says "Yes," anyway. Because sitting here, with Miranda, and with an award in her lap--yes, it's worth it. Whatever 'it' is.

Miranda looks at her for a long time, but can't think of anything else to say, so she turns back to her magazine. Her hand trembles a little as she turns the pages. She realizes that Andy's reply has made her happy, though she does not entirely understand why.

* * *

"Do you like our mom?" Cassidy asks bluntly.

"Some of the time," Andy says, holding still while the twins make a study of her for their art class. Given that she still feels sluggish and weak most days, this isn't too hard. "You think she likes me?" They roll their eyes, which could mean anything.

"Girls," Miranda says from the doorway, "do not tire Andrea too much."

"No, I'm okay," Andy says around a gigantic yawn. "Just…sitting here…"

"You should lie down now," Caroline says, and Cassidy starts dragging Andy to her feet right away, towards the bedroom.

Bossiness is obviously genetic.

* * *

But soon enough, Andy begins to recover--at least enough to start reading all the papers again, which is when she learns about Miranda's occasional dinner dates with Roger Galton, a well-known financier. Page Six, of course. There is a photo of them leaving a fancy restaurant together.

Miranda returns home that night to see Andy's pale, stricken face.

"I'm better now," Andy says. "I think I'm okay to move out again."   
  
Miranda flips a page in The Book without looking at her. "If that's what you want."

"Thanks for putting me up," Andy says, but Miranda does not reply.

* * *

That night, Andy wakes up when Miranda slides between the sheets of her bed and takes Andy in her arms without a word. Miranda is careful with her--too careful, and too quiet, considering that the twins are four whole doors away. Her kisses are as clumsy as they were at the beginning.

Andy raises an eyebrow at her when they pause for breath. "Out of practice?" she whispers.

"…yes," Miranda admits after a moment.

"Oh," Andy says, "good," and begins teaching her all over again.

* * *

Miranda Priestly is not good at loving people.

This is a fact. She's kind of self-absorbed, and not very generous, and afraid to let her guard down. She has her own priorities, and they often don't mesh well with other people's. Oh, she does her best--but she has often discovered, to her cost, that it sometimes isn't good enough. She is almost fifty-one years old and is not likely to change.

Andy Sachs is a little better at loving, but not much.

Also factual. She's almost twenty-six years old, so she's growing a little bit out of her youthful selfishness, out of her black-and-white views of the world, but she's not quite there yet. She is also goal-oriented and has her own priorities. She wants to be a great reporter. She wants to win more awards. She wants to get ahead.

She also wants to have a decent personal life, but isn't sure how. Miranda is no help, of course. Sometimes they just stare at each other in bewildered silence, as if wondering how they got here, and why they arrived together. Andy has been living in the townhouse for nearly six months now, and they have yet to discuss their relationship in any official capacity, or indeed, admit that they have one. Miranda's daughters are probably more at home with the idea than Andy and Miranda are.

After the first month, they gave in and started sharing Miranda's bedroom even when they didn't have sex. Now Andy always kisses her before they go to sleep. Miranda's still not exactly adept at it, but maybe one of these days, the lessons will sink in.

For some reason, it's all working out rather well. Really, you just have to take your opportunities where you find them. And--whatever their other deficiencies--Andy and Miranda are both very, very good at that.

Fin.

* * *


End file.
